The rejected crown (book 1)

Queen of ashes

Giovanna

The flames crackled in the pit, throwing jagged shadows against the longhouse walls. Giovanna kept her eyes fixed on the dance of firelight, listening to the deep rumble of voices around her. Balric's men spoke of blood and conquest, their words sharp with boasts and threats. The air reeked of sweat, smoke, and fermented drink—a suffocating mix she had grown numb to. She took a slow sip from the cup in her hands, tasting the sour ale without really tasting it. All around her was noise, but inside she was painfully silent, a storm she dared not unleash.

Balric leaned back in his carved wooden chair, his bulk casting a wide shadow. He was in a rare good mood, which meant he was loud and unguarded. His laughter was a coarse bark, his hands gesturing with wild abandon. She let her gaze linger on him briefly, measuring the ease in his posture. Tonight, he believed himself untouchable. She had learned to recognize his tells—the signs of when she could manipulate, when to press for something she wanted, and when to retreat.

"Giovanna," Balric's voice boomed, startling her out of her thoughts. "Come here."

She rose smoothly, setting the cup down with care. All eyes followed her as she crossed the room. It was always the same—hunger, curiosity, fear. The men never spoke of it aloud, but they whispered when they thought she couldn't hear. They called her the witch-princess, cursed and exiled. Even Balric's affection was tinged with suspicion and dread. He had taken her for her beauty, yes, but also to control the dangerous legend she represented.

"My lord?" she said, her tone soft and deferential as she stopped by his side. She felt his hand grip her waist, possessive and heavy. Her skin crawled, but she did not flinch.

"Tell them the story of your fall," he said, his eyes gleaming with a cruel light. He enjoyed this game—making her relive her disgrace before his men, watching her recount how she had been cast out, stripped of her power, and left with nothing. He thought it broke her. He did not understand how well she had learned to wear masks.

"If it pleases you," Giovanna replied, her voice like silk. She leaned in, pretending a tenderness that turned her stomach. "But I fear they have heard it so many times, my lord."

Balric's laugh was a rough bark. "Aye, but it never gets old, does it?" He turned to his men, grinning. "The fallen princess, protector of witches, now queen of nothing! Speak, woman."

Giovanna's hands itched to reach for the dagger hidden beneath her skirts. Instead, she folded them demurely in front of her and let her gaze drift over the room, as if drawing strength from the shadows. She had told this story a hundred times, each retelling another stone added to the weight on her chest. But tonight, she felt something different—a quiet, simmering anger that she could not fully bury.

"I was once the now king's niece, my father named me heir to the throne" she began, her voice smooth and practiced. "Beloved by some, resented by others. My mother, Queen lisa lancaster, taught me that power was not in birthright alone, but in what we choose to protect." She paused, watching the flicker of interest in their eyes. "I chose to protect those who had no one. The witches—women of knowledge and strength, feared by cowards."

Her words hung in the air, and she felt Balric's grip tighten on her waist—a warning. But she pressed on, carefully.

"They called it treason," she continued, her gaze steady. "I called it justice. For that, I was exiled. Stripped of my titles and left to wander." She let her voice drop, soft and cold. "But I survived."

The room fell silent, the fire crackling in the uneasy pause. Giovanna saw the glances exchanged, the murmurs that threatened to break free. She knew what they whispered—about the banners raised in her name, the rumors of a rebellion growing in strength. The men here feared what they did not understand, and she made herself a ghost of that fear.

Balric's laugh cut through the tension, harsh and mocking. "And now you warm my bed," he sneered, his hand sliding up her arm. "A pretty thing with a sharp tongue. Be careful, princess."

She met his eyes, her smile as cold as winter's breath. "Always, my lord."

Balric's attention drifted, satisfied with her submission, and he barked another order to his men. Giovanna stepped back, retreating to the shadows. Her pulse pounded in her veins, her fury a living thing beneath her skin. She had played her part, worn the mask of the meek wife, and lived to see another day. But each day was a struggle—a labor to survive, to outmaneuver, to bide her time.

She slipped out of the longhouse when no one was watching, her breath clouding in the cold night air. The stars above seemed distant and uncaring. Giovanna walked quickly, her steps soundless. She needed to think, to breathe. If there was truly an army rising in her name, she had to find them. She had to know why they fought and what hope they believed she could offer. She was tired of being a pawn in other men's games.

The wind carried faint whispers, voices she could not place. Somewhere out there, people spoke her name as a symbol of hope. She did not know if she could be their hope. But the thought of letting Balric, and men like him, believe they held her chained and broken—that was a lie she could no longer stomach.

Giovanna clenched her fists, her breath steadying. She would play her part until she had no need to. She would use Balric's fears, his hunger, his weaknesses—just as he used hers. The labor of survival was unending, but so, too, was her resolve.

If they wanted a queen of ashes, she would show them what it meant to rise from the embers.